Lot 665
by tonktonk
Summary: Raoul muses on his life with Christine after the events that happened in the Opera house. RC and EC. Based on the musical.


**Disclaimer: I do not own anything, except the plot.**

**Author's note: Hey guys! So this is my first fanfic on POTO and I hope you'll enjoy it :-D I tried to stay in character as much as possible but do tell me if I'm not! Basically, Raoul is at the auction at the start of the musical and this is just the events that have happened after their marriage. I am not a RC shipper though. I find Raoul really annoying.**

**On the other hand, I would also like to say that I am incredibly sorry if this storyline happens to be similar to other people's works. But I assure you that it is most definitely a coincidence, and, well, great minds think alike ;-)**

"Lot 663, then, ladies and gentlemen, a poster for this house's production of Hannibal…"

The poster unfurled with a loud _thump._ He eyed it for a while, then decided that he did rather like it. It was quite a lovely piece of art, as far as posters went. He was quite sure Christine would like to see it adorn one of their many rooms in the house.

Christine. He smiled faintly at the thought of his wife as he gestured to up his bid for the poster, against the gentleman who decided he quite liked the poster too. He was attending the auction at the Opera house, a building long past its prime, perhaps prematurely so. This dusty and gloomy place brought back memories, memories that he thought he had long forgotten. Such as the notes that he received, the ink so frightfully similar to blood, or the fearful and hushed whispers that sprung up whenever an accident occurred, or even Carlotta, and her high and shrieking soprano voice. Of course, he never really learnt to appreciate opera, so he couldn't really criticize Carlotta. He was able to enjoy himself when he went for an opera, but given a choice, he wouldn't mind if he wasn't able to go. He could discuss, praise and criticise the opera singers with his fellow businessmen, but that was all. Unlike some others, he wasn't really able to tell when a singer sang a subtly difficult piece perfectly. To him, all opera sounded the same – equally lovely.

But Christine would disagree. She was one of those whom opera had a great effect on her. Of course, it was only natural, considering she spent her childhood in the Opera house, but it was indeed rather amusing to catch her discreetly wiping her eyes after a particularly moving scene.

Yet, there were times when he would catch a fleeting look of discomfit on her face. Oh, when he asked, she'd smile her sweet smile and say she was fine, but he could see past the façade, and see how the songs bothered her. For a while, he was puzzled; how could she not enjoy watching _Madame Boniface_, _Fanchon_ and the like? It was only until much later when he realized that Christine missed the stage. Oh, no doubt of it, she liked watching opera, but she would like it a lot more if she was _in_ the opera.

He would give that poster to her, then. A reminder of the first time she debuted, the first time they saw each other after so many years. It seemed like a rather lovely proposition.

"Sold, to Raoul, Victome de Chagny. Thank you very much. Lot 664…"

Raoul glanced at the object, then dismissed it from his mind. Such an item would not fit in his home. No… he went back to thinking about how he should go about giving his newly-acquired poster to Christine. Should he surprise her, or…?

He knew that she missed singing. A Victomess simply did not sing; it was unheard of! As it was, their marriage did cause quite a bit of controversy amongst the aristocracy. He had to endure several visits made by well-meaning friends, determined to put him out of his 'infatuation', as they so delicately put it. Indeed, even his brother had objected to the wedding. But all the opposition, slight or violent, only served to deepen his love for his childhood sweetheart. He likened himself to the proverbial knight in shining armour – he would fight all obstacles and win the love of his life! Raoul smiled slightly – oh, how rash and youthful had his thinking been then. Immature, as Philippe would put it.

After their lavish wedding, they had spent a most delightful honeymoon across most of Europe, visiting the exquisite and unique buildings and places in each country. Oh, the architecture! Simply splendid. He would point out various designs to his wife, but he never did catch the fleeting look of sorrow that would flit across her expressive eyes, disappearing as quickly as it came. It was only much later, when he chanced upon her diary completely by accident, when he learnt of the truth.

"_Sometimes I wish that Raoul could take me back to Venice again, on another tour around Europe... But he is so busy with work, and I fear this would merely inconvenience him. He would take me out, you see, when we were younger, and bring me to see the majestic architecture in each and every one of those beautiful countries, but he didn't know that I had heard all about it before. Yes, I did… from my Angel of Music. Or perhaps, I should call him the Phantom of the Opera? I never knew his name. Ah, what a painful regret! I do wish I'd thought to ask for his name._

"…_He would tell me so many stories about those far-flung countries and the marvellous beauty they held. I never dreamt of being able to see such wonders in person, so, whenever he spoke of them, I would sit up straight and listen, even if I was supremely tired after lessons. He would describe everything – from the exterior to the interior, all in such perfect detail that it really did feel like I was there. He would regale me with tales of their history – such beautiful stories they were! It does make me feel sad, to think that he would probably never see such beautiful architecture again. Then again, perhaps he is there right now, enjoying life. I hope he is._

"_Ah, look at me, still thinking of him! It's not fair to Raoul, and I do feel so very guilty for even thinking about my Angel. Raoul is such a sweet husband, and I am very blessed to have him as my husband, but he keeps thinking that I need to be protected from the Phantom, and that's not true. My Angel…"_

How his heart hurt then! He didn't know – he thought that Christine was completely free of _his_ influence. And it pained him to realise that, even after all these years, there was still a small part of Christine that still cared for _him_.

"Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen, a papier-mâché musical box, in the shape of a barrel organ. Attached the figure of a monkey, in Persian robes, playing the cymbal. This item discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order, ladies and gentlemen."

The music sounded out, a beautiful tinkling that slowly died away in the cold, gloomy air of the theatre. His throat tightened. He recognized the tone. How often did she hum its tunes as she wandered around the house? Only… he was sure the tune lasted far longer than this, this tinny sound that lasted barely five seconds.

"Twenty-five."

The soft voice jolted him out of his reverie. He glanced at its owner. After a while, he realised who it belonged to – Madame Giry. She, in turn, acknowledged briefly the faint spark of recognition in his eyes and turned to look away.

Raoul gestured to his servant, who raised her hand on his behalf, still continuing to study the ballet mistress. She didn't seem to have changed. Only a few more streaks of white in her gray hair and more lines around her face told of the decades that passed.

His eyes flicked away from her and to the man standing in front of him, bearing the monkey and the musical box.

"_A collector's piece indeed… Every detail exactly as she said." _He murmured, his eyes slowly taking in every minute detail. The monkey seated peacefully and regally on its box, lined eyes watching nothing and everything, a knowing smile on its face, its hands ready to play the sweet tune, its fingers clasped delicately over the instrument. There was the only the faded hues of the monkey and a hint or two of rust that was not quite removed that told him that the monkey had been laid there, untouched, for a very, very long time.

"_She often spoke of you, my friend, your velvet lining and figurine of lead_." It was exactly as Christine had described it, during one of their conversations about the Opera house. They would talk about attending another opera, and somehow, the conversation would always lead to the Persian monkey. She would describe how it looked like, and the tune it played, but she never spoke of anything else in _his_ dungeon. And Raoul was only too happy to drop the conversation about _him_.

"_Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?_"

He never did hear Christine sing again. After _his_ opera and the events that followed, she never sang for anyone to hear anymore. She would only do so when she thought she was alone, or when she was with their baby, Charles. She didn't realise that their house was not soundproof, though. The servants knew that she was singing, and they would talk about it. Raoul would catch snippets of the servants' conversation, talking about his wife and how lovely she sounded like when she sang. But, no matter what, Raoul never asked her to sing for him. It was an unspoken agreement between the two of them; that Christine would only ever sing for _him_.

Sometimes Raoul wondered if she had made the wrong choice. Oh, she loved him, he knew, but there were times when such fanciful thoughts appeared. They came especially when he caught her staring into the shadows, when they passed by a shop selling masks for Bal Masque, when she was reading a book, even when she had a cup of tea… It was during these moments when Raoul knew that she was thinking of _him_ again. That damned monster, even absent, still managed to cast a shadow on his wife!

And yet, when she was thinking about _him_, Raoul never saw any look of terror pass through her eyes. He would only see a faint sense of wistfulness and longing in them, and small, unconscious smile lighting up her face. It was during those moments that Raoul realised Christine could never really belong to him. That some part of her would always belong to _him_, that man whom she called her Angel…

He watched the Persian monkey as it was brought away to where it would be stored. He would go to the newly-opened mechanical shop when the auction was done, and see if the shopkeeper could mend it and restore the musical box. Then he'd give it to Christine. She'd like that very much indeed, her Persian friend finally coming back to her after all these time. A reminder of the life she led before.

A new round of bidding began for the next item, the chandelier _he_ had destroyed and thus set the theatre on fire. Poor Andre and Firmin never did get over their loss.

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